


With the Spring, a New Coat

by BarbarianBeauty



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Wing Grooming, a tiny bit of angst, crowley loses his feathers, molting, unpacking of emotional baggage, we're on our own side, wing fixation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-02 15:04:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19443895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarbarianBeauty/pseuds/BarbarianBeauty
Summary: From the stress of losing his best friend, to the sheer amount of soot ground into his feathers from the multiple fires he was in within the span of only a couple hours, Crowley had begun to molt. But with the spring comes a new coat, just as it does for the fauna, it comes for him too. Only problem is, molting is less than comfortable. Well...lucky him, having Aziraphale there to dote on him.





	With the Spring, a New Coat

Aziraphale puttered down the street in Soho that lead to his book shop with a tote, full of new acquisitions for the store. Today had been delightful, in book, if you'll pardon the phrasing! Sundays were usually his days off. He'd visit each of the antique book stores in the area, and purchase new editions for his collection. They all knew him by name, at this point. Between that was a stop for lunch at one of the local cafes. Sometimes, Crowley would accompany him, sometimes he wouldn't, it was all simply a matter of how they met in each other's sphere's that day. After lunch, he'd spend a few more hours running errands, and picking up anything he'd need for the following week, before popping home to deposit his treasures.

Today had been _quite_ the lucky find! A couple first editions, one nearly two hundred years old, and a lovely complete set of the "Hardy Boys" books that he imagined Adam would like very much. He had decided, now that the Apocalypse had been successfully averted, that it bore staying in touch with The Them, and seeing to it that they stayed safe. And...well...Aziraphale had taken quite a liking to the four of them. He knew Crowley didn't want to admit it...but he had as well. Either way, he figured the boy could use some new reading material, especially the classics. Perhaps they could plan a trip back to Tadfield sometime soon, once things had settled down a little further...perhaps when the summer ended. Aziraphale had just finished putting everything away, and dusted his hands with a pleased air about him.

"There now," He hummed to himself "Right were you belong." And indeed, they were. Just how Crowley's plants feared him, Aziraphale's books adored him. This place was like book _Heaven._ But...that's another story entirely. Usually, once his Sunday errands were done, Aziraphale would meet with his partner, and the two of them would go to dinner, before settling in for the evening at which ever home was closest. Ah, right...Crowley. Now that he thought about it, he should probably give him a call! The angel padded over in, in his tartan socks, to the telephone set on his desk, and took a seat as he dialed the number. He was feeling...hmm...perhaps French food tonight? Ahhh, or German, perhaps-

"You've reached Crowley, Whatever you've gotta do, do it with style-" The line beeped.

Ah...that was odd.

"Ahh, hello dear! Must have just missed you. I'm thinking about where to get dinner, so let me know if you have any preferences! I'll be headed your way in just a few moments, give me a call, if you'd like, before then. I found the most wonderful little set of books for Adam, they're American classics that started in the Depression era-! Ahhh, I'll tell you about it when I see you! Until then, love!" With that cheery message, he set the handset back down. Well, he'd give Crowley a few moments to call back...he didn't have any prior business, that Aziraphale knew of...though he'd certainly been hard to wake this morning. More so than usual...hmm...

...Ah, right! How could he forget? If he was anywhere, Crowley would certainly have his cellphone on him! Handy little thing, that!

He held his breath as he dialed...and continued to do so as the same answer message began to play. He put the handset back onto the receiver, mulling over the information he had just taken in. Alright...odd, but...perhaps it was nothing! Aziraphale gave a nervous chuckle, and shook his head. He did what any sane person did when they were facing down anxiety. Talk to himself.

"No need to worry, old boy! He's probably fine, maybe he's...napping! He's always loved his naps, hmm? I'll bet you anything, he's trying to sleep for another century! So I'll just have to go and wake him up, won't? Haha, no need to worry!" He shuffled back into his shoes, and then to the door, continuing to mutter about how, surely, Crowley is fine! Even as the cabbie worriedly glanced between his passenger and the road, concerned when any of his clientele decided they were more interested in a conversation with themselves, than him. He considered himself a wonderful conversationalist, not that they ever seemed to care.

However...this one seemed...stressed. Ah well, not his problem, hm?

"Oh, oh right here!" Aziraphale announced as the apartment building came into view. "Thank you, please, keep the change!" He fished into his bag, and handed over a small wad of cash, which calculated out to a forty or so pound tip. Without looking back, he let his feet carry him up the stairs towards Crowley's apartment, on the sixth floor. His anxiety was bubbling just under his skin, causing his skin to flush...or perhaps he was just out of breath from the stairs. Or both. Probably both.

He stared at the door for what felt like a long time. In reality, it was a minute. Perhaps two, if you counted quite quickly, but not long at all. Aziraphale's instinct said to knock, that it was less jarring and more polite, should Crowley have company, no matter how unlikely that was. Buuut...by the looks of the elaborate, custom made cobra door bell, Crowley preferred that method of gaining his attention.

Aziraphale knocked, instead.

No answer.

After a moment, he rang the bell, and could hear it ding somewhere inside the apartment.

No answer.

Ahhh...okay... Plan B, then.

Azirphale's hand hovered over the door handle....and it opened. The door was unlocked...

That was...concerning. Hmm... Stepping inside, Aziraphale looked around...but found nothing remarkably out of place, at first. "Crowley?" He called hesitantly, sending glances around the apartment for any sign of the lanky demon. "Crowley, love, are you here?"

Again, no answer.

Aziraphale closed the door behind him, and turned to the plants in the next room. "Ahhh...hello there, little ones...!" He cooed attentively. "Ahh...you haven't seen Crowley, have you? I haven't heard from him...." The plants shook in a way Aziraphale interpereted as meaning 'yes' however, he lamented that he did not remember the finer points of flower language...Well...at least they had seen them, hadn't they? He had to be close-

Oh.

...Aziraphale stooped, hand shaking, as he found a black feather on the ground by his feet. He very gently turned it over in his fingers, almost reverent...because this could be the last piece of Crowley left...

Had...Hell found out? Or worse, Heaven?! Oh...his poor Crowley...gone, just like that...? Tears were already bubbling at the corners of his eyes, as he pulled himself up. No sense in being defeated yet, right? It was just a feather!! He...lost them all the time, didn't he...? Actually...now that it was mentioned, he couldn't remember the last time he lost a feather by accident...and it certainly wasn't making him feel better, now that he was reminded of that thought. He cradled the feather as he started to move through the hall way, eyes lighting up as he spotted another. "Oh...!!" That lessened the possibility for an instant smiting, but was still concerning...losing feathers was...usually a sign of a larger problem...

Unlessss...

Aziraphale held his breath as he pushed open the door to Crowley's bedroom, still chewing at his bottom lip over the possibilities...only to have them all put at ease.

Crowley's room was quite large, and much of it was filled by a large bed, which, of course, was adorned with only the most comfortable of blankets, pillows, and other adornments. The shades were drawn closed, leaving the room dim, and cool, even in the heat of the summer outside. But the most beautiful sight of all was Crowley, stretched out on the bed, fast asleep, and his wings draped over the sides of the bed. Feathers littered the floor and the bed, so many that it left poor Crowley's wings looked threadbare.

"Ooooh...Crowley, my love..." Aziraphale whispered, coming to the side of the bed in order to lean over, and gently stroke the red hair back from his forehead. The demon stirred with the disturbance, allowing topaz eyes to flutter open, glassily staring into Azirapahle's.

"Angel...?" He muttered, looking a bit surprised. "Thought you left for the bookstore...Forget something...?"

"No dear...It's already past five...I've already finished my shopping and such for the day...how are you feeling?" Crowley's brow furrowed.

"'s that late already...? Felt like I only slept...five minutes..." He grumbled, and started lifting himself, only to find his wings weighing him down. Tired, exhausted, Crowley flopped back onto the bed with a loud, rather over dramatic grown. "Ahhh dammit... I hate molting."

Molting, you see, took a lot out of an angel. Took a lot out of a demon, too. It happens in varying degree, depending on those you talk to. Aziraphale had met some angels, the real high up types, who had so many wings that they were always molting at some stage. For much of the population, with just the two, molting could happen anywhere between every ten, to every fifty years, for an inconvenient couple of days. Expect to be tired, expect to be stuck where ever you were, and expect not to get a single thing done. While molting, wings cannot be collapsed; they have to remain extended until the molting process is complete. Only then will the suffering party be allowed to continue with their daily duties. Aziraphale was lucky, his was on the higher end, and he only experienced molting every forty-eight years, perhaps one or two early, depending on the stress of the situation.

Crowley was a little more frequent, but this...this was very, very early for him. Usually, it was every twenty years. This was happening after only _seven._ He imagined it had something to do with an oncoming apocalypse, Watching his car explode, believing his best friend and romantic partner to be dead, and then having to face heaven as that partner, with the hopes that they did not immediately see through their plan, and submerge him in holy water. Quite a lot of stress for any being to be under, infernal or otherwise, and Crowley liked to think he handled stress quite well. If all he suffered was a good molt, it likely would have killed anyone else. 

But for demons, molts are...especially distressing. They are a hard reminder of where they once were, and where they were now. That they had, in some way, disappointed the being in charge of the ineffable plan, and proved themselves unreliable. It was beholding wings that were usually so immaculately groomed, now nearly bare, and tender to the touch. Crowley had seen some of the newest ones, the ones undergoing their first molt that rid them of their white feathers, hysterically weeping, and trying to reaffix them to their appendages, as though that would turn back the clock. It never did. The sense of pity he felt...never lightened, despite what he said.

In Aziraphale's book, it called for a few days off, a little bit of pampering, and a bit of TLC.

"Right...would you like a bit of tea, darling?" The angel cooed, gently helping Crowley up into a sitting position, and tracing a hand down his wing.

"Mmmh...yeah...yeah, sounds nice..." the demon gave a long yawn, shuffling as Aziraphale pulled his blanket back up, around his waist, and kissed his head.

"Just a moment, I'll make it fresh!" He promised. He found that tea always tasted better when made, rather than miracled. He suspected it had something to do with the preparation stages...that while it was happening, the love of the person making it permeated the drink. As much as Crowley didn't want to admit it, he could taste it too, though he would always insist it had something to do with fresh ingredients, and the time that went into it all. When he returned a few minutes later, cup in hand, he passed it to Crowley with the tenderest of touches. He knew, for a fact, that Crowley got tired, and irrate when molting, more so than usual. And the angel took it upon himself, here and now, to do everything he could, in order to make Crowley more comfortable, during this time.

"Mind letting me see the damage, dearest?" he asked, hesitantly, playing with his hands as the demon took a sip of his tea. He smacked his lips, much like a sleepy child would, before gingerly extending his wing before Aziraphale. "Ooohh...my, how lovely..." He breathed, allowing the tips of his fingers to grace over top, just where the extending joint lay. A soft hiss left Crowley's lips, and then a sigh of satisfaction.

"Could you...rub there...?" He muttered, embarrassed he even had to ask. Aziraphale, on the other hand, perked up at the notion of something he could help with.

"Oh, of course!!" The angel drew Crowley's wing further into his lap, and rubbed his hand over the joint again, testingly. Another soft hiss, and another sigh of relief. Aziraphale watched Crowley's shoulders visibly relax, his back shift to rest against the headboard, and his head fall back with his eyes fluttering shut again. "There...is that the spot?"

"Just...don't stop, please..." The demon was more than a little embarrassed, at the moment. He'd like it if it didn't get brought up again. But they just sat there, in comfortable silence, Aziraphale slowly, firmly, kneading his hands over the joints of Crowley's wing, shifting sides after 20 minutes or so. He watched as his darling slowly drifted further and further off, having to, at one point, rescue the mug of tea from his hand before it clattered to the floor.

Crowley was on the edge of sleep as Aziraphale shifted him to lie back down, and tucked him in. "Feel some better?" He whispered, only to get a somewhat appreciative grunt from the other party. "Good...you rest up...sooner you do, sooner it's over." That was some advice Crowley did not mind taking.

\-----

Two days later, it was very, very nearly over. Crowley was not half as exhausted, though he wouldn't mind staying in bed, and his wings felt so much better already. His feathers were, once again, evening out, and finally he was able to extend them, and contract them without so much pain. Aziraphale, of course, was over joyed. They had gotten through their first molt as partners relatively unharmed, and God willing, it would stay that way.

That was...until they found _it._

"Look alright back there, angel?" Crowley was saying, as he was inspecting his foremost feathers.

"Right as rain, love." Aziraphale responded, trailing the tips of his fingers over the full, healthy feathers that filled out Crowley's sillhouette. Crowley gave them a tenative ruffle, and then a half flap, making sure they all felt alright.

"Wait wait wait...what is... _that_?"

"Hmm? What's what, love?" Aziraphale popped his head over a wing, trying to follow Crowley's sightline.

"THAT!" Crowley pointed furiously to something on his wing, fingers pawing at feathers to show the layer just beneath.

"I'm not seeing any- oooohhh!!" Aziraphale's eyes widened to the size of plates. Not dinner plates, perhaps, but certainly a nice tea saucer.

There, beneath the layer of feathers parted by Crowley's clawing hands was a singular _white_ feather.

The two of them stared at it, and then looked to each other.

"That's not..."

"I think it is, angel."

"...but...how-"

"I imagine...it's from not being on a side anymore."

"O-or-!" Aziraphale interrupted, nervously flapping his hands about. "It...could be like graying hair! Y-you know, how...humans get, as they get older..."

"....Are you calling me _old?"_

"No! W-well, yes! But-"

"Angel, there are beings _far_ older than me. You ever seen this happen?"Crowley gestured again at the spot where the feather grew, somewhat like it might explode.

"No...we could...try plucking it-"

"NO!" Crowley curled defensively around the wing in question, like he might last at Aziraphale at any moment. The angel looked...rather hurt, admittedly.

"...it was only a suggestion, dear...since it seemed to be bothering you so much."

Silence fell between them like a thick blanket. Crowley folded his wings in again, very gingerly admiring the feature with a look Aziraphale could only describe as 'unreadable.' It sat somewhere between pride, and grief. Was it a gift? A mistake? Would it darken, by the time he molted again? Neither said any of the theories that they had, though they both had multiple floating through their heads. Instead, the angel sat beside his demon, and gently took his hand.

"You know," Aziraphale began "When my molt happens, you'll have to take care of me, you know."

Crowley let out a laugh. "I don't already? Which one of us would be beheaded right now for a crepe? Or burned at the stake? Or-"

"Yeeees, yes, alright, enough," Azirphale chided "...fine, more so than usual then. Better?"

"Guess so. And who knows, maybe you'll have a shiny new black feather to show off when you do." The two of them gave little laughs, the kind that hid larger worries, and leaned together.

As the animals hibernate in the winter, and the birds fly south, and the trees lose their leaves...the fauna get their winter coats. So do angels, so to speak. They brace themselves for the harsh of winter, and let go of all that extra armor as the spring comes. And come the spring...The demon Crowley had a pristine white feather, and the angel Aziraphale had a shiny, new black one. Nothing lost, and nothing gained, but an understanding that, truly, they were on their own side now. The light within the dark, the dark within the light. The first sunrise after the longest night of winter, and the first stars twinkling after the longest summer day. They were their own side; which was no side at all.

They liked it quite better this way. The tea was certainly better.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here it is, finally. This one took me some time, since I lost some steam after a portion of the writing got deleted by accident. So, I apologize if it's a bit condensed. Thank you for reading!


End file.
